


The Price of Passage (Forget-Me-Not)

by roraruu



Series: Flowers of the Underworld [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Background Relationships, F/M, Forbidden Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inaccurate Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Multi, Nymphs & Dryads, River Styx (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: Python holds out his hand. “You ready?” The ferryman asks.“As I will ever be.” The nymph whispers. Silque takes his hand, slowly growing warm with life.  He has to stretch it out; his body touch-starved and unused to such warmth. It has been too long since he has felt the sun on his skin. Yet touching her feels like touching the sun itself.Python's job is simple; he's to guard the five rivers of the Underworld and ferry across those who can pay. Amidst the union of one of Duma's prized reapers, Alm, and Mila's daughter of spring, Celica, the ferryman takes pity on a nymph and all hell breaks loose.
Relationships: Alm/Anthiese | Celica, Efi | Faye/Lukas, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Python/Silque (Fire Emblem)
Series: Flowers of the Underworld [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737331
Kudos: 8





	1. Lover of the Light, Attendant of the Acheron

**Author's Note:**

> now that the fairytale collection is done, the real party starts. it's greek time, opa!  
> i've had this in my back pocket for a while and wanted to flesh it out into stories like orpheus and eurydice and pygmalion and galatea but i got super tired.  
> plus everything i touch becomes a forbidden ship fic heyo. i just think they're super neat and like. thats really it.  
> replacing the fairytale collection, this fic will update every friday until the 4th week of july--then i'm on vacation. in the mean time if you hate waiting you can download the entire pdf, with the prior fic, lady of the underworld and the bonus, the way of the rose, now from my fic blog. it's under the sidebar in the section called pdfs!  
> stay safe out there everyone,  
> as always, thanks for reading n everything y'all do ♥️♥️♥️

Python’s job is simple. Guard the passageway to the bank of the River Acheron. He’s been working this job for some thousand gruelling years, not a single pebble or grain of sand changed since the day his mother abandoned him at the foot of the Underworld to fulfill his job as a servant to the War Father.

Thankfully, Duma is away at most times with his flock of knights and soldiers in dark scaled armour to shield him like night. Off to mark lives for his reapers to take, a reaper himself at heart, with an unquenchable thirst for blood. His favourite of his personal reapers is Rudolf, and his son, a brat named Alm.

Conversation is short. Trite. An order for Python not to move at most; or to welcome a freshly deceased soul to their new eternity. Usually he pops the cap of an ever-full bottle of ambrosia wine and tells the poor sap to drink up. 

But today, Duma orders him away, tells him to wait at the top of the gate and keep it locked up. That’s no problem for Python, not at least right now. It means he has to wait on no one but himself. He goes up to the surface, where the entrance way of golden fields stretch for a million miles. While he sleeps in the tall grasses, Python doesn’t realize that the reaper’s brat, Alm, has snuck out. 

He hurries to meet his beloved, the daughter of Mila’s late, slothful son of the earth, Celica. Together, they flee the earth, hopping from Mila’s blessed and bountiful lands to Duma’s empty expanse of lands and finally to the domain of the Underworld. 

Alm, a reaper and used to the climate of the Underworld, can pass through with no problem. He books it through the gates, while Celica cannot pass, not without the aid of the ferryman or another being. Together, the two formulate a plan: Alm will hurry forth and ask Duma for his blessing to wed her and allow her to pass, while Celica waits at the top of the entrance. With a gentle kiss and the promise that he will return, Alm retreats into the Underworld. 

But her lover takes too long with his plan and Celica grows worried. She begins to bang her fists on the doors of the Underworld, a goddess’s strength in her hands.

She’s locked out, by Mila’s orders. No child of hers will cross into Duma’s domain. Celica’s banging fists wake Python from his slumber. He feels warmth radiate off her body, the sun and springtime incarnated. It’s the first time he has felt it in many years, since he was brought here as a child to serve the War Father. Her hands are hotter than the sun as she wakes him with a start.

“Whatever you’re sellin’, we ain’t buyin’.” Python says. “Be it pottage spoons or holy relics.”

“I sell nothing but my soul. I will pay you to escort me across the river.” Her voice is velvet, soft like a Flostym breeze. Her crown of wildflowers does not wilt, as it should in the Underworld. Strange, they should be withered veins now in the cold.

And Python, not knowing who she is, agrees to ferry her across in exchange for a handful of Nethergranate seeds. propagating the Earth’s decay.

* * *

Some six months later, Python’s payment of earthly seeds runs out. The seeds are all but gone, their sweetness now only a fading memory. They were his payment, not gold obols or locks of hair; real food from up top. 

True, he has no need for it, but something about holding the seeds in his hands, watching them fade one by one as he ate them day by day. Different from the never-ending bottle of ambrosia wine; they are finite, and now, they are gone.

But Celica is not back from the Underworld and Forsyth—the protector of Elysium, Tartarus, the Mourning Fields and the Isles of the Blessed—will not let him hear the end of it because Mila will not stop squawking about her missing daughter. The earth refuses to grow foods, extending Wyrmstym’s stay by an additional season. Through the thick ground, Python can hear the cries of the hungry.

He rests by the river, the draw boat nearby. Forsyth, and Lukas—the God of War who grows tires with this trite conflict that their benefactors wage—send letters by the wings of corvids and ravens to persuade Duma and his reaper, Alm, to release Celica. They do not relent when they are met with silence. 

Working for Duma is quiet. Python escorts people across the Rivers Styx and Acheron and to the Underworld, where he lives to judge. For him, the lines blur between reaper and ferryman, masquerade of white and black where he plays executioner and messenger. On occasion, he’s had to take a blade to the necks of not quite dead humans and creatures. But since the Goddess of Spring’s arrival, the King of the Underworld’s voice has been more level, less sharp and just as quiet. 

The Underworld is cold, radiating off the river and to the bridge that leads into the citadel inside. A flower, against all odds, blooms in the Underworld. A reason to live. Or at least Duma’s reason for his child, Alm; and Mila’s reason why the earth should die in the absence of her child, Celica. Forsyth whimpers about it the entire time, leaving to join the meetings at Mila’s Temple where Mila demands for her daughter’s return and Python has to pass on the message that he can do nothing. Alm does not attend his ancestor’s court, and neither does Celica. Mila defends her right to see her missing daughter; Duma defends his son’s right to a wife.

Python is dozing off when someone bangs at the door. Maybe a deceased soldier who is freed from Elysium’s opium-laced dreams and vies for justice again to make his way to the Isles of the Blessed. Perhaps a member of Celica’s or Mila’s faithful cult who braved the drug-like allure of the fields. They like to come around as if they can offer their measly lives for their Goddess; as if a human’s could compare to the energy of a Goddess’s. Or maybe it is Mila herself, suffering the ache that she and her followers face, a result of Alm and Celica’s undying love.

Whoever’s hands are banging against the metal must be broken, bruised and bloodied. The doors are thick with onyx and iron, crafted by the God of the Forge himself. Python rolls over in his riverbank bed and tears his ears from the crying souls of the river below, the aching cries of the hungry above and the banging of the door.

* * *

Something drops at his feet, pulling Python from his slumber. A handful of baby blue hair, the shade of the sky, rests over his sandal.

Over him, a dying (or dead) nymph lingers. Her grey eyes are dark, her skin pale like the sand of ground up bones that he sleeps on. Python’s bleary gaze narrows as she drops another handful of hair by his hand, a dagger of ice melting in her palm. She’s cut it off, payment for passage. The edge of her hair meets the nape of her neck, barely touching her smooth jaw. Her white chiton is marked with violet droplets; purple blood, the one that flows through her veins. Flowed.

It’s the only way he knows she’s a nymph. In death, they lose their otherworldly looks and garments. Flowers bloom until they wilt and wither, then they rot and fall apart. Their violet blood however, that of Mila’s, remains.

“Are you the ferryman?” She asks. Her voice is soft and gentle, but there’s traces of panic in it.

“Who’s askin’?” Python stares up at her. The nymph’s gaze flickers about him, from the chlamys beneath him to stave off the Underworld’s chill, to his dark eyes and the circles beneath them. 

“A woman wanting passage.”

“It ain’t that easy, honey.” Python pushes himself up onto his elbow, watching as the woman steps back. “You a nymph?” 

She nods. “One of the Rigelian Sluice.” She whispers. Her voice softens, deafening in the silence of the river’s canal. 

“What you doin’ here?” 

Her eyes flicker around as if he is being ironic. An incredulous smile crooks in the corner of her lips. “I died.” It fades as the words escape her mouth.

“Purposefully?” Her gaze flickers to the river of oblivion. The forgotten souls clamber for someone to remember, someone to pull them from nothingness. “There must be a mistake then. Duma don’t want nymphs, neither does he want suicides.”

The nymph’s eyes flash with worry. “What happens then?”

His eyes flock to the River Acheron. The nymph’s shoulders shake, rippling down her ruined dress. “There must be some mistake.” Her voice drops in volume, aching and scared. “I was not told of this. This is a mistake.”

“Oh, it was a mistake honey.” Python says, sitting up. He stretches his neck, the crack it makes carries across the river. In his mind, he prepares the necessary information to carry her across and present her before the War Father. “What is your name? Duma needs to know for judgement.”

“Silque.”

Python’s gaze flickers back to hers. Too strange for a water nymph: he’s met dozens of Nereidas, as the name’s popularity has only boosted since one bore a hero. The same nymph fled to the River Styx and dipped her newborn son into its waters, making him invulnerable (Python, of course, was dead to the Underworld when it happened: Duma and his right hand man, Rudolf, oversaw it all). With the colour of her hair, he expects her to be named something like Delta or Aqua, not Silque. Marina or Oceania, maybe even Rivera (due to the Rigelian Sluice) would do for her looks. 

The name Silque is too odd for a creature of water. Then again, Python isn’t an apt name for a ferryman. 

“And what did you do to end up here, Silque?” Python asks.

“I can pay you.” She says quickly, stepping closer.

“Think you tried to with that thing.” Python says. He nudges the long locks of her hair on the ground with the toe of his sandal. He gets to his feet, pulling up his chlamys and fanning it over his shoulders. Why is it always hair? What is mortals’ fascination with offering their hair and coin? Not like he can use it, locked up in the canals, waiting on the dead to arrive. The prior is just weird, and he doesn’t accept handfuls of hair for a multitude of reasons.

“No, in marks.”

“What use do I have for marks?” The beach is clear, his ferry and it’s pole beached not so far away. He begins to walk towards it. He hears the nymph follow him, her feet kicking up the sand. 

“If not marks then wine!”

“I have ambrosia, I don't need anything else.”

“Then...” Her voice falters. “Then this.” 

Python stops in his tracks and glances over his shoulder. The nymph, who Python now realizes is much smaller than him, holds a tiny flower in her hand. Behind her, in the tracks of her feet, are more little blue flowers cropping up amongst the shreds of the bones of the forgotten. He picks it up, his brow furrowing.

“What is it?”

“Forget-me-not.” She says. “When I was alive, it was the flower that I grew. I suppose I can still do it here.”

“Because the Lady of the Underworld is here.” Python says under his breath. Silque’s brow furrows. A flower blooms in the Underworld. “Cel... Selina?”

“ _ Lady Celica? _ ” The nymph breathes.

“That’s her.” He snaps his fingers. When he glances up and meets her gaze, the nymph looks scared. Terrified even. And Python knows what will happen, the tragic events that will have to follow, by the Fates’ feathery hands. He‘ll have to bring this nymph before Duma, his deep voice interrupting his son’s bridal suite with his wife, explaining that she took her own life and her case—if she even has one. And Duma will say “ _ let the die be cast _ ” before silently telling Python to throw her in the River Lethe to be forgotten and reborn.

Python will have to hold her head under the waters and wait until she drifts away with the thieving currents. A memory to no one else but him. He always remembers.

“Give me passage across, and I will pay you in flowers.” She pleads.

Python stares at the nymph for a moment before relenting. He holds out his hand. “I’ve worked for worse.” He says.

A breath, labour-less and unneeded, escapes her pursed lips. She presses the flower into his palm “Thank you, oh thank you.” Silque says as she follows Python, forget-me-nots popping up in the sand as she walks. He hides the flower in the many pockets of his chlamys. Python lifts her into the boat, fighting a flinch when he feels the fleeting warmth in her hand.

The ferry is small, barely enough to fit two passengers. Python sits at the back, pushing it forth with the long pole along the stones of the bottom of the river. Silque sits at the front, prim and proper and dead as a doornail. Her eyes focus ahead, upon the river of the hateful dead and the spirits she cannot see. Python, who can see them, clambering for the ferry as they always do, keeps his eyes on the small of her back where a sash of violet silk is bunched in a belt.

Usually he can sense where the fatal injury happened. A weak heart that skipped too many beats and stopped; a broken limb that makes the dead limp, gangrene darkening the body; torch clothes from a fire, the stench of burnt flesh and hair lingering behind the husk. But on Silque, he cannot sense or see the marks where she cut herself. Was it with a sharp knife? No, she’s a nymph, maybe it was done with the sharp thorns of a briar rose or a razor-like leaves of a gladiolus. Perhaps she boiled foxglove into a tea or ate belladonna berries, which took her life in painful, agonizing seconds that felt like years.

No, then he’d see the juice from their berries upon her pale lips, like leftover lipstick from a kiss. And her purple blood stains the edge of her gown. Perhaps it was on her limber legs that she drew nature’s blade to end it all. He lifts his pole, pushing it forwards and watches as her head turns a little, looking at the piles of bones that become beached with decomposition.

“So why did you off yourself?” Python asks, his eyes on the river.

“Do I need to tell you?”

“Nah, but as the one person that’s sparin’ you from oblivion, I might be kinder.”

A sigh escapes Silque’s lips. Again, there is no labour or relief tied to it. “It was a sacrifice to my mistress.”

“A sacrifice?” It’s been awhile since Python’s seen a sacrifice. Duma’s grown tired of people longing for his power; or at least, that’s what Python thinks. Silque nods, slow and shallow; her head bows as if she is about to pray. “Was it voluntary?”

“Is it of concern if it was my choice or not?”

“Yes. Because then the War Father might take kinder to it, no need for a lie. Easier for me after all.”

The water is silent, save for the whisperings of souls below. Silque cannot hear it, as she is only passing through. But Python, who has lived in this palace for centuries, knows their whispers and whimpers well. They linger in his ears as he sleeps. 

“It was voluntary.” She says, turning her face back to the river. Python pushes the ferry forwards. Silence falls between them. 

The ferry glides across the water with little resistance, it’s waters calm and kind today. The spirits like Celica. She makes the flowers grow by the banks on the other side, she also comes to see them from time to time, listening to their woes with her reaper husband in hand. And this nymph, Python can feel that they like her too, a bit of spring in the Underworld; another bit of life in the land of the dead.

The lantern on the edge of the boat rocks and wobbles with movement. Python keeps his eyes on it. He hears the waters chant:  _ lover of the light, lover of the light. _

Perhaps she was pious in her previous life. Maybe she will be now. Too bad her light will die and squander in the Underworld. A flower may bloom by godly graces, but light cannot live in eternal darkness. Simple as that.

He can hear someone sing, and realizes that it is Silque herself. Her voice is soft, low, barely above a whisper as they move ever closer to the other edge of the banks. Corvids and ravens take to the air, a sign that they draw closer and closer to Duma’s domain. Python watches as Silque’s frame shudders, and listens as her voice goes silent.

The ferry beaches on the sandy shore. Similar to the one across the River Acheron. The only difference is, this side houses the Lord and Lady of the Underworld and his ancestor’s domain. The other side leads to Elysium and the world above.

Python steps out of the boat, his feet meeting the sand. He reaches back for Silque’s hand. It is frozen in his grasp now, dead like his. She stares at him with wide eyes, her lap is full of forget-me-nots, with some even blooming in her palms. Her eyes flicker sheepishly from the flowers to him. She stands, his payment falling into the bottom of the boat and beginning to wither and die.

“You ready?” The ferryman asks.

“As I will ever be.” The nymph whispers, stepping out from the ferry.

More forget-me-nots bloom from her footsteps. They grow more frail and weaker with every step closer to Duma’s kingdom. The King’s judgement is passed, his voice low and carrying through the Underworld, surely interrupting the Lord and Lady’s wedding bliss for a fleeting moment. While they may ignore it and return to whatever romantic endeavour they were indulging in, Python and Silque cannot.

When the ferryman returns, with Silque in a home amongst Duma’s army of the forgotten, the flowers are all dead, nothing with withered stems and wilted petals.

_ Let the die be cast. _ He thinks to himself as he boards his ferry, full of forget-me-nots. 

* * *

Celica leaves the Underworld a day later. She asks Alm to ferry her back to the entrance to see her mother and begin a much-overdue spring. Python was asleep on the other side of the shore while they said a tearful goodbye, a promise to meet again when autumn’s cold winds come to drive away Celica’s hard work.

Python lays in his ferry, now awake after escorting a dead woman across Acheron, in his payment of forget-me-nots. They wilt in his dead touch, truly natural unlike the Nethergranate’s seeds. The devotion that Silque held for her liege was her downfall, as consuming a Nethergranate aril was Celica’s.

Someone says that Celica left because she received a message that humanity was suffering. Her heart, humble and kind, ached to ease senseless pain. She left with the plans to bring a bountiful spring, as she did every year before she married the Lord of the Underworld and became his Lady. Python already knows who the messenger was, although Alm is none the wiser, only more solemn and reserved without his wife; Duma however, is enraged at the thought of her returning to Mila.

Python is just drifting off to the sounds of the river’s soft lapping waves and whispering voices when he hears a song, carried across the water. He listens for a moment, before sitting up in his ferry. 

Across the river, the air thick with fog, Silque stands in the bone-crusted sand and sings again. The souls of the river begin to chant:

_ She is here, she is here, there is no one other—  
_ _ She, who delivered the message of Mila, our Earth Mother—  
_ _ The nymph Silque, a lover of the light,  
_ __ The brave heroine who delivered Lady Celica from eternal night.  
_ She sings of the Goddess and of our pantheon,  
_ __ She sings for you, so listen close, ferryman Python.

Python listens for minutes, hours, days, until her voice is lapped up the River Acheron and the fog becomes so dense that he can barely see the flowers in his hands. He only recognizes it as her song ends, but his ferry is now decorated in forget-me-nots, the little blue and violet buds propping up from the wormed wood and shattered bones.

(Across the river, she calls:  _ The die has been cast. I hope it was in your favour, attendant of the Acheron. _

Python throws a forget-me-not into the River of Pain and calls out to her.  _ Perhaps, has it been for you, lover of the light? _ )


	2. Messenger of Mila, Doorman of Duma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have shit to say other than hi shit's been crazy and thats why this fic didnt follow the usual friday upload (not that anyone reads it lmfaooo) but anyways, thanks for all the support. if you want to read the next chapter, you can download the entire pdf from my fic blog linked in my profile.  
> as always, thanks for reading.

After Celica leaves the Underworld, Mila’s attendants find her. After checking her over for injuries—only that of a broken heart for leaving her husband—Mila shows her the pain she wrought. The Earth has refused to come alive, but the second Celica’s feet meet the ground, life returns to the earth. Grass and grains shoot forth from the Earth as she follows Mila back to her Temple.

Mila makes her repent for leaving Valentia for so long. Mila makes her repent for her damned wedding. Mila makes her repent for the woes she carries close to her heart. After several days of devoted prayer, Celica crosses the land, bringing springtime at last.

But when springtime is spread and Valentia is one again blessed, Mila shuts Celica up in the gardens of her Temple, stretching out into the beyond of the Rigelian Sluice.

Her entourage once again finds her. The Goddess of the Hearth, the God of the Home and the Muse of Medicine look the same, elated to see their dear Celica at last. But one is missing, the kind nymph that made forget-me-nots grow and tended to the wounds of fauna and human alike.

And then, doubt comes into Celica’s mind and makes a home. As she works away the winter from Valentia, she gazes upon the immortalized daisy ring upon her finger, and speaks to her entourage of gods and muses.

“When is the last time anyone saw Silque?” She asks.

Genny has to turn her head. Boey cannot speak. Eventually, Mae takes her hand. In her softest voice, she leans close to the goddess.

“She’s missing. No one knows where she went. Not even the other nymphs.” Mae whispers, her hearth-like heart burning Celica.

“Does Mila know?” Celica asks. 

But then she realizes: the state of the Earth is abysmal. Mila has neglected the Earth since Celica went missing and now her attendants and the nymphs must do all they can to work away the winter. 

And at night, while she lays in her wildflower bed, Celica remembers the young woman who caught her arm in the Underworld. Who pried her from the river, where she listened to the souls of the forgotten, where she made Nethergranates grow, where she made the flower bloom in the Underworld.

The girl who had caught her arm and warned her of the Earth’s decay, of Valentia’s plight, of never-ending winter, was Silque. 

She didn’t recognize her for she looked nothing like the nymph who protected the Rigelian Sluice, the one who always offered her forget-me-nots when she was called to Celica’s court. The one who protected the waters. The one who prayed to Mila everyday to end Valentia’s suffering.

Celica sits up, pollen and petals flying around her as she brings her knees to her face. Silque had sacrificed herself to save Valentia. And that she somehow ended up in the Underworld, the last place any nymph is supposed to be. And for that, Celica wakes Mila’s Temple in the middle of the night.

* * *

Python is minding his own business, sleeping on the sandy shore in his ferry, when Mila storms the Underworld. 

The doors above smash open as she stomps down. He fumbles in the ferry, tripping out to see who’s coming to yell at him now. He’s seen the divine mother once or twice in passing, never much more than a sideways glance at her court or at a party. She comes with Forsyth on her tail, escorting her and her daughter of Springtime into the gates of the Underworld. Her voice fills the canals, the river swelling with the voices of their immaculate mother, the one who created humanity, who created Valentia.

She reaches the bottom of the staircase, poised before Python and his ferry. He reluctantly falls to a bow, listening to the girl talk in a hurried, nervous voice with Forsyth. Their voices catch and tangle together.

“He knows everything about who passes through! He is our ferryman!” Forsyth cries out.

“She arrived and warned me of it, I’m certain of it, Earth Mother. I left the day after—“

Mila glances over her shoulder, a warning look to her newfound entourage. They fall silent. Two people look too small to be for the Earth Mother’s escort. She usually has a heavenly procession before her, heralding her every movement. Instead, she is only the Goddess who created Valentia, fearsome and fine in her own rights and merits, not a cherished Goddess.

“You, ferryman.” She says, her voice shaking the ground. “You gave a nymph passage to the Underworld.”

Python stiffens. He nods. “Yes. Er. Ma’am. I did, is there a problem?”

“Indeed, she is my servant. She belongs not here, but in a proper end.” Mila says. Her eyes fall upon him. “Her name is Silque. Do you know of her?”

The ferryman grows stiff as Celica and Forsyth look to him. Python clears his throat and steps out of the ferry. “Yes. I do.” He says. “I gave her passage to the Underworld weeks ago.”

Mila’s brow twitches. She turns to face the River Acheron. “Give her passage back then.” She orders.

“It ain’t that easy, your highness.” Python says. He doesn’t fully understand the intricacies of Duma’s Underworld, all he knows is that she’s Duma’s now, the second she paid to pass. 

“Is she in the Styx?” Mila asks, looking towards the water. “Or Acheron, whatever this hell-river is?”

“Acheron.” Python corrects with a shake of his head. “No one guards Styx. And she’s across the River. In the Underworld.”

He hears Mila grumble a cuss in another tongue. Her shoulders shift back as she plants her feet in the river. Any normal god would be crying out now, but she is the immaculate mother; such pain that any normal could feels is nothing more than an annoyance. The goddess raises her hands in a clasp, and then spreads them apart, Acheron parting in a wall of green and blue before her. The sand floor go down for a million miles. The souls cry out, loud and desperate for the Mother to recognize them and end their pain.

Mila turns back to her entourage. “Anthiese, go back to the Temple and do not leave again.” Her voice is low and dangerous.

“But Alm—“ She whispers.

“I said do not leave.” She repeats before turning to Forsyth. “And Guardian of Elysium, escort my daughter. Stand on watch until I return.”

“Yes, Earth Mother.” Forsyth agrees. Celica winces, before turning her head and ascending the staircase to the Underworld. Mila turns to Python. “Ferryman, wait until the River returns to normal and then follow suit. I will need passage for the nymph.”

“How you gonna pay?” He asks. A folly beyond belief.

Mila looks back over her shoulder. “By sparing your existence and ignoring your comment.” She says. Mila leaps into the chasm, plummeting a million miles below. In a moment, she becomes nothing more than a spec and the waters return to normal. They beat against the shore, demanding that Mila too take them back. But they are all forgotten spirits of humans, nothing to her. And she is nothing but another pain to them. 

Python crosses the river, beaching on the shore. He can feel the ground shake. Mila and Duma are fighting again, arguing over who should keep the nymph. But she in question is no place.

And then, Mila calls for Python from the beaches. The lull of her voice is unmistakable and unable to be ignored.

He stands before the Gods, listening to them argue. Their voices shake the audience chamber. Mila spits that a nymph does not belong in the Underworld, just as one of his Reapers does not belong upon her Temple. Duma shoots that it was not his son that stole the Goddess of Spring away, that she came willingly. As they are about to sling magic at each other, Python speaks up, for once in his life.

“I knew she was a nymph. She told me and the blood on her dress said it all.” He says.

The Gods look at the ferryman. Duma leans forwards in his throne. “She paid me off.”

“I will triple the obols she paid you.” Mila threatens. A heavy price to pay, but no doubt she could.

“You would not do anything of the sort.” Duma says. His eyes fall upon Python. “Did you know that she had taken her own life too?”

Python slowly nods as Duma laxes back into his chair with a great sigh. Python knows that she would have been drowned in the River Styx and he’s silently grateful that he lied. “But I didn’t realize she offed herself to come down here and warn the Lady of the Underworld.” Python presses. “She said nothing of that.”

“Then she belongs in Elysium.” Duma says simply.

Mila erupts into anger. She screams that nymphs never die and if they ever meet their end they simply return to the earth, from where they came. Duma says that she paid the toll to Python and that he gives no returns. Mila’s eyes fall upon him. 

“It is not that simple to pry a soul from the Underworld. She’s selected her fate, to drink from the River Lethe and be reborn. There is nothing I can do.” Duma says.

For some strange reason, Python feels a panic envelop him.

“Ah, so what if when Celica returns to the Underworld, as she is bound to by your trickery, and speaks of Silque?” Mila presses. “About how she died to save those above?”

Duma shifts nervously on his throne.

“You’ve a martyr on your hands, Duma.” Mila warns. “And the dead love a martyr. You could have an uprising on your hands...”

“Then take her, I care not.” 

“But your ferryman cannot be trusted now!” Mila yells. “How many other of my nymphs has he taken pity upon! Did he lure my Celica to your Underworld with the reaper—“

“You shall not speak of my treasured reaper in such a disrespectful way, Mila.” 

“Then give me the nymph Silque and follow this agreement—“

Duma’s voice is loud and booming. “Fine.” He says, before turning to Python. “Go and retrieve the nymph and escort her across Acheron.“

Mila suddenly look haughty and proud. “But Duma, there is still more to discuss. Allow your ferryman to leave and we will discuss it further.” She says.

Duma looks to Python, a clear sign to leave before his hearing is blown out for days. But as he’s leaving, Mila touches his shoulder. Her hands are warm like springtime, sending a shiver through his body. The Goddess gives him a pair of talaria, wrapped in cloth. 

“Give Silque these. And return her pay to her. I will wait for her at the top, at the gates.” She orders before Python is cast out into the Underworld to find Silque. As he is leaving, bringing his bottle of Ambrosia to his lips, he hears Duma’s voice reverberate through the Underworld.

_ Let the die be cast. _

* * *

Lost souls wander, looking for purpose, for lost ones left behind above. Soon, they will be forgotten and will wade into the River Styx. Some may end their pain sooner and go into the River Lethe, forgetting who they are; he doesn’t know what’s worse, forgetting who you are or being forgotten. Both sound terrible. 

Python will be the one to find them and listen to their cries to be remembered, asking who they were. He passes by empty-hearted and headed people, beginning to search for the nymph who gave herself up for her mistress.

Python rules out the spots she could be. Not Asphodel, nor the Mourning fields. She’d be denied access. He goes first to the River Lethe, where he finds her tracing the shore. The waters lap against the rocky shore, threatening to swallow her and her memories hole.

Of  _ fucking _ course it’s the River Lethe that she goes to. Of course the most terrifying river, the one of true oblivion, of nothingness. While the rivers Styx and Acheron have the ability to forget with given time, Lethe has the ability to erase the entire mind. Those who go there are bound to be reborn, but lose everything.

He’s about to call out for her to not drink, to not move into the River, to get away. But stops himself as he watches Silque keep her distance from the shore. She kneels in the pebbly sand, her eyes shut and hands clasped tight. She looks as though she’s listening, as though she is praying. She looks peaceful, calm and laxed with her state.

For a moment, Python wonders if she is happier in the Underworld rather than above. Perhaps she is one of the odd souls who does not mind the Underworld’s nothingness that makes others quake and grow restless.

Then, she looks over her shoulder.

“Python?” She whispers. The ferryman only stares at her. She moves closer, as if to see if he is real. He looks at her tracks, watching for little blooms to crop up. There is nothing. No forget-me-nots, no sprouts, nothing. Not even fading footprints from her steps. “What are you doing here?”

Python considers telling her the truth. “I should be askin’ you. You know that’s the River Lethe, right?” 

She nods. “I do.”

“The river of forgetfulness. You step in there, you’d forget who you are.”

Silque’s face doesn’t flash with fear or anxiety. Instead she nods again. “I know that. I was listening to the spirits. Comforting them.”

“Why?” 

“Is there a reason needed to be kind?” She asks. “After all, it reminds me of above. I used to listen to humanity’s sorrows and woes.”

Python shifts in the sand as Silque stands up. She glances to him, her hands unclasping and smoothing out her skirts. The mark of purple blood is still on the hem. How didn’t anyone notice that? Was Duma blind, or did he just not care anymore? 

“I did not think you could come into the Underworld.” Silque says.

“‘Course I can. I just don’t want to.”

“So that’s why you never crossed to meet me?” She asks. Then her face flickers with embarrassment after she realizes what’s been said. She laughs it off.

“Yeah, sure.” Python says. “I’m here now though.”

Her brow furrows. “Why are you here then now? Was that you I heard yelling with the King of the Underworld?” She asks innocently.

“Wasn’t directly apart of it, but yeah.” Python says. He looks to the River, the spirits calm and quiet; he can hear them whisper her name over and over. “You’re lookin’ comfortable.”

“Indeed. I’ve come to enjoy it down here.” She says before taking a playful step closer. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I wanna talk to you.” The talaria grow heavy in his pockets.

“Of course.” Silque says.

Python stares at her. Nothing has changed since the day they met; her hair still barely meets her jaw, straight as a sword’s blade. Her face is pale with death, almost the colour of the moon. Her chiton is still marked with her blood, and Python still can’t tell where she cut herself. The words are on the tip of his tongue. His hands move into the pockets of his worn old chlamys, clasping around the talaria. They grow heavy in his grasp.

“Did you off yourself to warn someone?” He asks.

Silque’s face falters a little bit. She holds his gaze, her head nodding ever so slightly. “I thought you already knew.” She says. “I did say I sacrificed myself.”

The words escape his lips before he can stop. “Duma found out. He doesn’t want you anymore.” He says.

Silque’s eyes widen. A breathy “ _ oh _ ” escapes her lips as she stares down at her feet. 

“Mila was just here. She wants you back.” 

She looks as if her eyes are about to float out of her skull. Silque balks. “I-Is that allowed?”

“Duma’s letting you go, so I guess it is.” Python says with a shrug. He turns on his heel, moving back towards the entrance of the Underworld. He hears Silque’s footsteps trail after him, slipping in the pebbles.

“But have you ever given passage back?” Silque calls.

He half shrugs. “Not in ages. Last one was a hero savin’ his wife.” He says. “She was a martyr too.”

“I’m a martyr in their eyes?” Her voice is breathless.

“Yep. And Duma can’t stand martyrs.” He warns. “Come on. She’s expecting you.”

Silque suddenly looks like she’s about to burst with excitement. She matches her pace with his, moving as quick as her feet will go. They pass the souls of the Underworld with quick feet, eyes down as to not draw attention to themselves. They board the boat and cross. 

Some souls of Acheron clamber for him or her and Python whacks them away with the oar. Silque keeps her gaze across the River, her hands knit inside her chiton. When they’re across and Python tears himself from the ferry, forget-me-nots fly from the boat. Silque recognizes them, a smile spreading across her lips as she picks one up. It’s frail in her hands. 

“You kept them.” She whispers,

“They were my payment after all.” He says as he traces the beach. “You’re supposed to take them back, Mila’s orders.”

Silque shakes her head. “I won’t. Thank you for retrieving me.” She says. “And speaking the truth.”

Python turns his gaze to his chlamys, the talaria practically weighing him down. “She said to give you these too.” He says, pulling them from the worn pockets. They glimmer against the waves.

Her eyes fall upon them then watches as she raises the sandals to her feet. The gold straps curl around the soles, along her ankles and up her calves. Then, as if magic, gold wings flock from the sides. Messenger, at last.

Python holds out his hand. “You ready?” The ferryman asks.

“As I will ever be.” The nymph whispers. She takes his hand, slowly growing warm with life. He has to stretch it out, touch-starved and unused to such warmth. 

Silque steps out from the ferry, her sandalled feet meeting the sandy shore. Silque takes an unsteady step forwards, then another. Slowly, she traces the beach with airy steps. She twirls in the sand before looking back to him. Her eyes are piercing. 

He thinks of her running back, clasping his hands and thanking him—perhaps with a kiss. He doesn’t know if he would kiss her back, but he knows he would burn alive with her warmth, invading his veins and heart. He would be too unused to it. 

Instead, she moves towards the staircase, clasping the railing made of bones. She turns back around, throwing one last glance towards Python as he waits at the bottom of the staircase. 

“Thank you, Python.” She calls. And he likes how his name sounds on her lips.

* * *

There’s someone at the top of the stairs. The footsteps are light and airy as they descend. There’s something dropped at his side. Then something else. He wakes, gazing at a person before him in golden light. Her hair falls in her face, a Nethergranate at his foot, a bloomed forget-me-not at his hand. 

“Hello Python.” She greets with a smile. 

His bleary eyes register her after a moment. “Silque.” Python’s brow furrows as he sits up and stares at her. Silque drops to sit beside him in the sand. “Why you back here?” He asks.

Her hands grasp a handful of her dress. Her violet blood has been washed away, the talaria on her feet polished to a golden shine. Two clips hang behind her ears, mimicking wings.

“I’m a messenger now.” She says. Python only stares at her. He eases his elbows onto his knees as Silque smiles. “Mila made me her messenger; when Celica returns to the Underworld in Pegastym, I will relay her messages to the Earth Mother.”

“So...”

“So we’ll be working together from now on.” She says.

“Really now?”

She nods, the edge of her hair swaying. “The War Father and Earth Mother came to an agreement. I’ll guide souls to the Underworld; you will ferry them across the River Acheron.” She says. 

Silque gets to his feet. “So we’ll met halfway?” He asks.

Silque nods. She holds out her hand to help him up. “Is that fair?”

“It’s fair as it can be.” Python grumbles. He stretches out, his bones popping and cracking with every movement. 

“The Earth Mother said you should show me the lands.” She says. “There will be no one marked for death until later. Would you show me now?”

Python readies the ferry, the waves calmed by Silque’s presence. He’s cleaned up the forget me nots from before, but they still bloom through the wormed wood. They float through the Rivers Acheron and connect to Styx. Then along the river Cocytus, where those of the Underworld sit upon the shore and weep their sorrows until their eyes are dry. Tears only enrage Duma. 

He half expects Silque to turn away in fear and sadness. But Silque follows along, ever ready for serve her goddess and her pantheon without falter, her hand upon her heart. Python hates that spiel. 

He shows her the Phlegethon, the river of fire. The ferry, blessed by Duma to never melt, glides across the fiery water. It burns from red to black, connecting into the dark depths of Tartarus. Python’s never been there, except to guide hellish arrivals who have earned Duma’s hatred.

And when they’ve passed by all the rivers, Python returns to the entrance of the Underworld, and beaches the boat on the shore. He sits beside Silque who gathers her chiton in her hands. 

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Python asks.

“I have to be. It’s my duty now.” She says.

“You could always quit. Tell Mila to shove off.”

“But she is my maker, my Goddess.” Silque meets his gaze. Her eyes narrow. “I would not be repaying my debt to her.”

“Debt?”

“All nymphs carry a debt to her. We’re her servants, her guardians.” Silque explains. “Just as you are in debt to Duma.”

“I ain’t though.” Python says.

“But didn’t he raise you? Cared for you?” She asks.

His brow furrows. He rarely spoke of how he came to the Underworld. Only person who really knew about it was Forsyth, and he was halfway across the damned realm; same thing happened to him. Both dropped off before the gates of the Underworld.

“Something like that.” Python grumbles.

“And isn’t that why you do this job?” She asks.

Truthfully, he’s got nothing better to do. This job is just something to fill immortality with. He won’t say that to just anyone though; it’s something he tells the souls that he’s  _ truly _ sorry for. 

(Which might have been her, if she wasn’t about to be reborn.)

“It’s because it’s my job.” Python says lowly.

Silque nods. “That is the same reason I am going to do this. Even if it hurts.” She says. Slowly, a sad smile spreads across her lips. “Though, I’m glad that I have someone to help me through it.”

Python feels a rush of something. He’s not quite sure what it is: could be excitement, fear, anger, nausea.. Though, he hasn’t had the latter since he first became ferryman and earned his sea legs. To drive the feeling away, he stands up in the boat and tells Silque that they’re going to the lands of the dead.

* * *

Silque observes many great philosophers and scholars in the Isles of the Blessed. Her eyes grow wide at the sight of islands over a glassy lake, as if they are floating. Python tells her that this place is the resting place of those who achieved Elysium three times over and were reborn. True peace, true happiness. But to him, it’s boring. 

Flowers bloom from Silque’s feet. She gazes at heroes long since passed, angels and saints devoted even in the after life to their Goddess, athletes and scholars and poets and politicians speak amongst themselves. 

“Can they see me?” She asks Python.

“No.” He says. He and Silque are only apparitions to them, nothing more than rustles of winds, movements of grass beneath their feet. Small movements of the land.   


Her smile falters. “Are they happy?” She asks.

“Yeah.” He lies. They are happy as they can be, in eternal bliss and nothingness. As happy as a forgotten person can be in the depths of the River Styx, with a heart full of hatred.

* * *

They travel to the Mourning Fields next. He tells Silque that this is where the souls of unrequited lovers lay. It is a place of numbness and regret and tears. Python doesn’t like to stay there long, and has truthfully, never understood their purpose. 

And thankfully, Forsyth finds them. His armour gleams in the shreds of sunlight as he drags them to his realm, Elysium. 

Elysium is for the distinguished. Little labour is there, but it is also... regretful. There is no need to do anymore, which ends up driving a lot of the residents crazy. As a result, Duma lays down an opium-like dream to lull the righteous and virtuous to slumber. Some can choose to be reborn, by drinking from the River Lethe and being robbed of memories, and return to Earth. Though, many others do not decide to do so. 

Forsyth is more than pleased to have another god in their realm, and is particularly ecstatic that she was once a nymph too. Forsyth’s spent too much time on guard, too much time with his head in a book, reading about knights and heroes of Duma. A nymph is one of the many oddities of life that he and Python have been hidden from, down below the surface. 

And like a knight, he bows before the Goddess and kisses the back of her hand. Her face brightens in shock, a flush caressing her cheeks as she laughs it off. 

“You won’t be working with Python, will you?” Forsyth says. Python can already feel the lecture coming on.

“I will. I guide souls to the Underworld. He will ferry them across. We will deliver them to Duma.”

Forsyth’s brow raises. “Well, in that case, do not let him get on your case. If he ever does, come to me.” Forsyth commands.

Silque only laughs and agrees, ever kind, ever grateful. A shred of sunlight in the realm of eternal night. 

* * *

No one guards the Asphodel meadows. There’s nothing to guard. It’s a long stretch of meadow full of nothing. Asphodel is the place where indifferent and ordinary souls go to rest. Those that Duma did not want working for him would go there. It is nothingness, but it is better than Elysium, for one still has the solace of their sober mind. 

It truly is nothing more than a never-ending stretch of meadow, but Silque insists on laying in the fields and staring at the sky and unrelenting sun.

The souls cannot see them. Python tells her that to try and shorten their stay. Instead, Silque lays in the warmth of long reeds, her short hair splayed behind her like a spot of paint on an artist’s palette board. She gives him a warm smile, tells him to lay with her and stares up at the clear sky. Python sits back on his haunches, not too close to her. Silence falls between them as she watches the moving clouds. 

“Do you think I will be a good goddess?” She asks Python.

He nods. “I think you’ll be kind and all that shit.” 

A smile flashes across her face. “The Underworld could use a bit more kindness.”

And strangely, Python finds himself agreeing in her presence, believing that she is kindness incarnated. With a passing of time—Python does not know if it is minutes or hours or days—Silque eventually gets to her feet and follows him towards the ferry that’s docked by the river of Asphodel. 

* * *

The first shall be first; and the first is a distraught child. She is their first shared soul to across the Styx and Acheron by their hands.

Silque brings her below, descending the staircase with her hot little hand in hers. The child, with mousy brown hair, and a dull yellow frock that’s been dirtied with time, cowers behind Silque. She darts behind the messenger when Silque calls out his name and Python sits up in the ferry. 

“We need passage, Python.” She says softly, coming close to the boat. 

Python’s eyes waver between the girl and Silque. he knows how he looks; skeletal, dead, scraggly,  _ creepy _ , but he will do all he can to be kind, at least to children. They know no better, they are pure and innocent.

“You got somethin’ for me?” He asks the child, as softly as he can manage. It comes out gruff and annoyed. 

He leans down in the boat, his chest meeting the stern. The little girl hides behind Silque’s legs. The messenger takes her hand, makes a handful of forget-me-nots from her palm—a surprise to Python, Mila must have restored Silque’s growing powers to her—and places them in the child’s hand. The little girl’s voice trembles with a cry, and she drops them into the sand, curling into the skirt of Silque’s chiton. 

Her gaze meets Python’s. She leans down, picks up the forget-me-nots and takes his hand. “Should we be followin’ procedure?”

The deceased must offer their payment to Python. No one else can. Otherwise, they’ll be forced to wander the shores until they do. 

“Someone showed me compassion once.” She says softly. “I believe Mila would turn a blind eye to a child.”

Python holds her gaze as she presses the forget-me-nots into his hand. “Her payment for passage.” She whispers.

“I’ve worked for worse.” Python mumbles as Silque turns to the child.

“What’s your name, little one?” She asks.

“P-Posey.” 

Silque looks to Python, who begins the record in his mind. Python pulls the ropes from the dock and readies the ferry to depart as the child cries into Silque’s lap. Slowly, with such compassion, she picks the child up and climbs into the raft with her feathered feet. Python climbers in after, watching as Silque soothes her mousy hair back and holds her tight. She hums a soft lullaby to the child, calming her as best she can. 

Python pushes the boat off and can immediately sense the thing that killed her—neglect. No parent cared for her, abandoned in one of Mila’s houses as a child, raised by an elderly woman until she too died and then left to fend for herself. 

As they cross the River, Silque sings to her and calms her. The child falls asleep in Silque’s arms and for a moment, Python wonders what it would be like to be held by her.

For a moment, he thinks about waking in the ferry with her in his arms, warmth once again in his cold, stone body. Her holding him tight to her thudding chest, where her heart resumed beating. Her head curved around his.

He’d like to be comforted by her. To feel like a human rather than  _ whatever _ he is now. Not quite dead or alive; not fully immortal or mortal; neither human nor god. 

Python climbs out of the boat, his boots meeting the shore with a thud. He takes a step back and holds his arms out to take the sleeping child, her body now cold. A wave of melancholy washes over him; a life so easily wasted. 

Silque passes her over, then leaps down from the ferry and takes her back. Together, they walk toward the Underworld to give Posey over to Duma. In the dark of his audience chamber, with the sleeping child in Silque’s arms and Python’s story upon his lips, Duma passes his judgement.

“Sink her in the River Lethe.” He says, his voice breaking the thoughts of Silque and Python.

The messenger does not argue, neither does the ferryman. The two leave the audience chamber and move back to the rivers and glide along to the Lethe. The child is still asleep when Python and Silque lower her into the whispering rivers of the reborn. 

When Python charts a course for the other side of Acheron and looks at Silque, she is crying.


End file.
